24 January, 2009

A week later...

I've often found that my intentions to be a loyal writer have failed me. All of this week, for instance, I kept telling myself: you should update your blog. You should update your blog. You should update your blog. So the saga of my life since my last post:

Sunday I came to the realization that my zipper on my coat was broken, this being a euphemism for the reality--i.e., that I, in an effort to unzip my jacket, effectively broke my coat. All right, I said to myself (I'm an optimist), I'll just go to a tailor on Clerk Street tomorrow, hand it in, wear a sweatshirt all week. How bad can it be?

I wake up Monday and head off in search of the tailor. It started to rain very lightly when I walked outside, but I just put up the hood on my (dad's) American University sweatshirt. It rains frequently in Edinburgh, so I didn't think much of it. Until it began to snow.

Here I am, trapped on Nicholson Street, in a blizzard. In my sweatshirt, my now-drenched broken coat on my arm. When I arrived at the tailor's, I could barely speak. My pants were soaked through, my sweatshirt was soaked through. I handed them the coat and ran to the library, where I tried to warm up.

I didn't get my coat back until last night. In the meantime I tried to keep myself warm by layering up, which can be pretty torturous.

Tuesday was, of course, Inauguration Day. I skipped a Classical Literature lecture to stand in the corner of the Teviot Union's crowded Sports Bar to watch it on a big screen TV (b/c it was five o'clock here!). It was, in all likelihood, one of the most momentous experiences of my life. And heartbreaking that I wasn't there to see it in person.

Today we went to Glasgow, a beautiful city that is significantly bigger than Edinburgh as well as considerably more industrial. There was a museum (pictures on Facebook are pending) of art and native wildlife, as well as a Science Centre, and Glasgow Cathedral, which had the shrine of St. Mungo. I don't know who that was, but his tomb was pretty impressive. The whole place was positively gorgeous, and the necropolis...I don't think I've ever seen anything quite as beautiful as that cemetery. The moment we walked through the black, wrought-iron gates, I felt tears fill my eyes. The hills here are so green, and the tombstones looked so solemn, and behind the hill of the necropolis, the setting sun threw orange light against them like a blaze of fire. From the top, you could see all of Glasgow spread out below us.

I've been working a lot on writing. I'm still writing the FWIW prequel, but until I can determine what I'm willing to relinquish in order to make it a coherent and well-moving play, it's going to be stuck where it is. Any suggestions would be appreciated. I'm also thinking of adapting King Lear by turning it into a modern drama with limited moral culpability.